


Lava Requiem

by starclipped



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon Era, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, sort of a fairytale but not really, this is what happens when steve is an angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starclipped/pseuds/starclipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never knew each other and perhaps they never would have. Not in that life, but in the next… they’ll be inseparable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lava Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "The Angel" by Hans Christian Anderson.

It’s 1935 and in three hours, Bucky will be 18 years old.

He dies at 17.

________________________________________

His mother’s been tending to his sickly Aunt in Virginia, so that’s where he’s headed, to the only family he has left. He’s excited for it, hasn’t seen his Ma for months, is even starting to forget exactly what her perfume smells like and how good her apple pie tastes. And his Aunt, bless her, shaking off that tuberculosis like it hadn’t nearly snatched her away.

He’s sitting there carefully, observing all the people in the train car; the funny old man with the ripped hat, the pretty lady and the knitting in her lap, the burly man in the corner with the funnies pressed against his nose. He watches the scenery flash by too, says goodbye to New York even though he hasn’t yet left the state.

Bucky’s sitting there, counting down the minutes until he’s a proper man, ready to be taken seriously in the world. And then there’s a lurch and a flash of panic in the air that ghosts through him, makes his throat close up.

It happens so fast. All he can remember is being thrown from his seat, as if that were the worst of it. But now he’s crumpled and mangled and stuck dead inside the derailed train.

It’s horrifying, looking at his own lifeless body like it was someone else, like he was watching a motion picture instead of living ( _living? Not anymore_ ) reality. He can’t look away or think anything other than _how_ _is this happening?_

He can’t smell the smoke or the blood, but he can see it, can see everything. It’s hazier now, dreamlike. He can’t be sure it isn’t some bizarre illusion, not until he turns and spots the clearest thing around.

It’s a person, small and thin. He could be a child, but Bucky can see that his face is too mature. They might be around the same age, he thinks as he takes in the crisp features; floppy blond hair, shining blue eyes… white, feathery wings sprouted out from a delicate body. Not a person, then.

Bucky licks his lips and glances back over towards his corpse. “You an angel or somethin’?” He’s quieter than he means to be, but it doesn’t really matter.

“I am.”

Bucky flicks his gaze back over to the angel, voice barely cracking when he trails, “So I’m…”

“Dead?” the angel asks, sounding as if he’s trying to be truly helpful.

Bucky breathes deeply. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” the angel agrees.

Bucky stares at the guy for several seconds, thinking. The next logical question in such an illogical situation is this, he decides: “Why’re you here?”

He can guess the answer, really. People have been saying for centuries that angels escort souls to Heaven. Bucky never believed that an angel came down every time someone died, mostly because people die _a lot_ and wouldn’t it just be easier if they all stayed on Earth? But maybe they do – s’not like anyone alive can see them.

“When a child dies, an angel’s tasked with flying them to Heaven.”

Bucky makes a face. “I ain’t a kid.”

The angel smiles, small and teasing. “Well, technically you are.”

“Technically? I would’ve been –” He glances down at his watch, stops when he sees that time is frozen there. His brows furrow.

“You’re still seventeen,” the angel tells him. “Which means you’re still nice and pure.”

It’s obviously a joke. Bucky hasn’t been _nice and pure_ since he was 15 years old. So he snorts at that, observes the way the angel’s face lights up, chin jutting out like he’s pleased he could make some poor, dead sap laugh.

He thinks fleetingly of his mother then and sobers quickly. “Can’t you just… push me back in my body or somethin’?” He knows the answer before the angel can shake his head or pull out a pitying expression. “It’s just – without me, my mom’s only got her sister.”

“I’m sorry, James.”

“Bucky,” he mumbles, an absent correction. Even in death, it’s reflexive.

The angel nods and repeats softly, caringly, “Bucky.” It rushes through him like a caress.

He turns completely away from his body, knowing that this is it. He’s really dead.

Well, _shit_.

“How come we don’t see anyone else?” he questions, though his gaze stays locked on the angel, a beacon of beauty in the surrounding horror.

There’s a shrug. “They probably passed us up.” The angel winces. “You were still alive for a while.”

Bucky doesn’t remember any suffering, so at least there’s that.

“C’mon, Bucky. We gotta go.”

He sighs and steps forward, notes how the small angel’s head stands around the height of his ear. It should make him look dainty, but the huge wings on his back gives him a fierce presence. Bucky’s sort of in awe, has to stop himself from reaching out and touching.

“Gee, you’ve got some big wings,” he blurts, doesn’t realize how that sounds until he’s already said it.

The angel laughs, short puffing sounds from the back of his throat that could be mistaken for precious music. It makes Bucky smile.

“What’s your name, anyway?” he asks, because he has to know. “You got one?”

“’Course.” The angel grins and rolls his shoulders proudly. “I’m Steve.”

“Well... nice to meet you, Steve.”

“I just wish it was under better circumstances. Now let’s go. I’ve got something to show you.”

Steve, the little angel, wraps his arms around Bucky’s torso, just able to go all the way around, and then he lifts up and flies them away, straight out of the train, no solid object in their path.

Bucky’s a little scared of the elevation, but he can’t help marveling a bit. The sky is dark still, just barely lighting up. The higher they fly, the faster they go, and the inky colors of the night blend with the fading stars. He should be upset that he’s only soaring through the air because he’s dead and being carried by an angel, but he’s not. He’s thrilled – like it’s 1927 and he’s 10 years old, riding the merry-go-round for the first time.

The cool air rustles Bucky’s short hair and he can see it doing the same to Steve’s. They keep flying, but lower now, until they’re around where an airplane would be. That’s where they idle, with Steve holding Bucky safely in skinny arms like the weight is nothing. It probably isn’t, not for an angel.

“What, you change your mind?”

Steve makes a noise of amusement. “No, stupid. This is the part where I take you anywhere you wanna go.”

Bucky twists, trying to look up at Steve’s face. “Huh?”

Steve shifts behind him and his arms start to loosen, and Bucky clings like falling would mean a second death. It won’t, but it still startles him. He only relaxes when that bony chest gets pressed against his back again.

“That’s how it works,” Steve starts to explain. “You pick your favorite place and we’ll go there, and then we head up.”

Bucky moves one of the hands resting on Steve’s to tangle it in his own tousled hair. He could go to Virginia, see his mother one last time, right? Or maybe he’ll ask to be taken to the apartment in Brooklyn, just so he can rummage through the comics under the bed, the ones he hasn’t touched in years. Heck, he could even stop by the schoolyard. He’d always liked it there, what with the big shade tree and the faded bench he’d had his first kiss on.

He doesn’t go to any of those places. Instead, he asks Steve to take him to Red Hook in Brooklyn, to the docks he’d worked at the summer before. And Steve does, flies them over and lands so they can walk the length of the port together, side-by-side at a leisurely pace.

There isn’t a soul around, save for Bucky’s. He hadn’t come here for people anyway.

“So what’s special about the graving docks?” Steve questions. He sounds more than just a little curious.

Bucky shrugs, shoves his hands inside his pockets. “Nothing really,” he says truthfully, eyes trained on the gradually lightening sky. “Red Hook’s pretty shit, if I’m honest. But…”

A sigh falls from his lips. He laughs a little, only with a sliver of humor.

“My dad worked here when I was a kid, so I’d come by with my ma sometimes and the three of us would eat supper. It’d stink and everything, but I’d always be the last one ready to leave.”

“How come?” Steve asks, gentle as anything.

Bucky rubs at his nose. “There’s this one spot. You can see the sunset perfectly. S’beautiful. And y’know,” he huffs a breathy laugh, “there was this kid around all the time. No one knew if his dad worked there or what, he was always alone, and he’d just sit and draw. He’d stick around longer than I did and then just stopped coming one day. Never saw him after that.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Steve nodding, slow and thoughtful, though he doesn’t say a thing.

Bucky shrugs his shoulders again. “I’ve always wanted to see the sunrise from this spot.”

He’s sure he hears Steve whisper, “Me too.”

They sit there and watch the sun peek over the horizon in companionable silence. The dark blue of the sky pales around the pinks and reds and oranges, beams shining on the water’s reflection. It’s the brightest Bucky has ever seen the world. It’s gorgeous, but the awe of Steve’s expression is even more breathtaking.

They stay for a little while longer, just soaking up the early morning rays. He can’t feel it on his skin. Somehow, it’s just as nice.

________________________________________

It’s past 6 in the morning and Bucky is 18 now, but according to Steve, not really.

             ________________________________________           

“So what happens when I get to Heaven?”

They could fly out of Red Hook, but they choose to walk instead, passing by people who can’t see them. Bucky takes a moment to look at his surroundings, like it’s the first time instead of the hundredth.

“Whatever you want. You’ll find out in a minute, I just gotta get some flowers first.”

Bucky raises a brow. “For what?”

“We’re supposed to bring flowers when we go back.”

Bucky’s full of questions now. “Why?”

Steve looks like he’s thinking hard about his answer. “They have a better chance at life up there, I think. Like us.”

“But we’re dead.”

“Just your body,” Steve corrects. “Souls live forever.”

Bucky hums quietly at that. “And flowers?” he asks.

Steve’s lips quirk. “And flowers.”

The angel looks at Bucky until his smile fades and something lights up inside his piercing eyes, something hopeful. He asks if he can fly Bucky somewhere, explains it won’t take long, like that matters. It doesn’t and Bucky readily agrees, silently eager to be swept up inside that warm embrace again.

They land in some back alley in one of the poorer Brooklyn neighborhoods. The building beside them looks pretty dilapidated and the people on the busy street look overworked. But what he’s really meant to be seeing is a cracked vase in the sill of one of the windows under the fire escape, and he only knows that because Steve flies up to grab it carefully, holding it with delicacy that suggests familiarity.

He looks disappointed to see nothing but dry dirt.

“There used to be a flower here. A daisy.” Sadness flickers over his expression for the briefest of moments before it’s replaced by indifference. It doesn’t suit Steve, Bucky tells himself absently. “There was this really sick kid. His dad died before he could know him and his mom worked all the time just to get by. So the only living thing this kid had was the flower, sort of like a friend. It was… nice, taking care of somethin’ for once, ‘stead of the other way around.”

Even without a body, Bucky can feel his heart stutter, and he holds the breath that gets sucked in through his nostrils. “How do you know that?” He thinks he can guess this, too.

Steve glances up, looks like he’s only now realizing what he’s said. His chest heaves with a little sigh.

“I was the one always drawing that sunset,” Steve admits.

It should be a revelation, truly, but it’s not really _shocking_. Part of Bucky feels like _of course it was Steve_ , like it would’ve been strange to find out that kid was anyone else but this beautiful angel in front of him.

“I like drawing. The sunset was my favorite, but I liked shading buildings, too. Sometimes I’d even sketch out people. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was getting beat up in every alley Brooklyn has.”

“What?” Bucky’s a little flabbergasted. “People beat you up?” _How could they,_ he wants to demand.

Steve smiles wryly. “Most of ‘em said it was my own fault.”

Bucky’s brows shoot up in disbelief, but something about Steve’s eyes makes him suspicious, makes him ask, “And was it?”

Steve hums. “Eight times out of ten, maybe.”

What the fuck? “You’re angel, for God’s sake. You tellin’ me you were a little punk before that?”

Steve actually rolls his eyes. “Like you’re any better, jerk. Mister nice and pure, huh?”

Bucky laughs at that, loud and real. It feels like it’s been forever. Everything before seeing the angel on that crashed train already seems like a distant memory. He can’t even be bothered to feel upset by that thought.

“Hey, you’re the one who said it.” He sighs before continuing gently, seriously, “I thought dying would be worse than this. And I feel guilty ‘cause I’m leaving my mom and my friends behind, but I’m – S’not like I don’t care, don’t get me wrong, I just…”

Steve sets a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It’s heavy and light and exactly what he needs.

And Bucky looks to that empty vase again. “You wanted to take your daisy with you?”

He sees Steve give a short nod, glimpsing at his hands, only looking up when Bucky reaches to take it from him. Bucky’s as careful with it as Steve was, running his fingers over the cracks, trying to imagine a lone daisy as pure and strong as Steve.

“I’d bring it back if I could,” he tells him earnestly. But if Steve – _an angel_ – can’t do it then Bucky sure as hell can’t. He just wishes he could, to make Steve smile, to let that flower grow in Heaven like it deserves.

“Bucky.”

It’s just a breath, but it's reverent and it echoes through his whole existence like so much more.

Bucky doesn’t know what it is (could be those eyes and how the irises look like the open petals of a cornflower, or maybe it’s the way his mussed hair resembles a golden halo), but he’s enraptured by the way Steve’s long fingers graze against his hands, curling over them atop the vase, holding it between their chests.

Bucky can’t be sure who leans in first, wouldn’t be surprised if he did, but Steve’s mouth blankets his and nothing else matters anymore. His lips are plush, as warm as sunshine. He tastes the salty ocean air on Steve, alongside a sweet apple pie tang.

And there’s a burst of _something_ within his chest that keeps growing until he’s overwhelmed. Tears drip from his lashes when he blinks his eyes open, sliding down his cheeks as Steve eases up on the blissful pressure of their mouths.

Bucky thinks of his mother and the pain she’ll be in. He thinks of the life he’ll never get to live. He thinks of the little boy and the sunset, the angel and the sunrise, how they’re so connected that it can’t be anything but fate that led him here. To die hours before leaving childhood behind, just for this, to be led away by Steve.

Bucky swallows and gasps when he remembers to breathe. His bleary eyes refocus in an instant while the tears disappear against his jawline, like water seeping into soil, feeding a plant, feeding a soul. Life. Life after death.

Life with Steve. Was there anything before it?

Steve’s lidded gaze drops from Bucky’s face, down to their connected hands. His expression brightens, so Bucky looks down, too, sniffling as his emotions drift in the breeze that passes through. There’s a daisy sprouting right before their eyes, the stem rising from the now-damp soil. Its yellow middle is vibrant and the white petals are bright. The embodiment of a miracle.

“Did you know that was gonna happen?” Bucky whispers.

Steve shakes his head in awe.

He lets Steve take the daisy from him so he can rub at his face. This is the craziest birthday (and how ironic, now that he's dead) he’s ever had. It might also be the best.

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve says sincerely, and he sounds shy for the first time.

“I didn’t do anything. Must’ve been your angel powers.”

“No,” Steve insists. “It had to be you. Maybe both of us.”

Bucky clears his throat, trying to ignore the tingling sensation coursing through him. “You’re welcome,” he says, cringing a little. “I mean, I’m glad I could… do that, for you. Help.”

Steve grins, bright and steady. His fair cheeks are tinted rose. Bucky can’t believe he’s made an angel blush. _Gosh_ , it’s a remarkable sight.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, scraping teeth over his bottom lip. Bucky has to remind himself not to stare. “I’m glad you’re my first.”

At that, Bucky can’t stop his smirk. “Your first, huh?”

The tips of Steve’s ears turn a little red, even as he rolls his eyes and shoves at Bucky’s shoulder with one hand. “I meant my first my mission.”

“Oh.” Bucky hopes Steve ignores the disappointment conveyed by that word.

But Steve doesn’t, of course, and maybe Bucky ends up a little glad for that because Steve leans in just slightly to murmur, like a secret, “Yeah, my first kiss. I’m glad it was with you.”

Bucky licks his lips, tries to be coy while he wonders, “So I guess they don’t do a lot of kissing in Heaven?”

There’s that laugh again. Bucky could listen to it forever. He might end up doing just that.

Steve tells him, “Things are always changing,” like it’s a promise.

So Bucky throws an arm around Steve’s thin shoulders, the lovely daisy tall between them. He smiles down at Steve with pure devotion and believes that Steve’s smile is just the same. Bucky should be afraid to leave what he knows behind, but Steve folds his magnificent wings around their bodies and all he knows is _safe_ and _right_.

________________________________________

They never knew each other and perhaps they never would have. Not in that life, but in the next… they’ll be inseparable.

And maybe Bucky will get wings and fly with Steve back down to Earth, helping guide the souls of children Home. Maybe they’ll even stop to watch the sunrise, pressing kisses into each other’s skin like it’s the best thing they’ll ever do. He's certain it will be.

________________________________________

It’s 1935 and Bucky isn’t any age. He’s dead to the world.

He’s more alive than ever.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Lava Requiem" by Shady Bard. (Alternate title: Day's Eye)
> 
> So I spent all day writing this. I usually don't like writing things under 4000 words, but I didn't want to drag it out. It already started feeling rushed towards the end. 
> 
> I really just wanted to write something different after spending months on The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot. I wanted to try an AU and Captainstevebarnes suggested a fairytale. So here's what happened: I went searching for Fairytales, found a short story called "The Angel" and ended up really liking the premise. What I wrote isn't exactly... fairytale-ish, but it's based off one and has some of the qualities, I think. Like, anyone who read TBWBHOS knows how much I love buildup, which this severely lacks. But it's meant to. I wanted it to be sweet and symbolic and about fate, so I hope that came across. I feel like it's not Steve/Bucky enough, if that makes sense. I need to write something else... so back to the drawing board. 
> 
> Anyway, hope at least some of you enjoyed this little piece.


End file.
